


See Amid the Winter’s Snow

by MacPherson



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Courfeyrac’s ridiculous family, M/M, No penguins were harmed in the writing of this fic, Snowstorms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 08:44:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17158865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacPherson/pseuds/MacPherson
Summary: Four times Courfeyrac kissed Combeferre, one time he didn’t, and one time Combeferre kissed Courfeyrac twice.





	See Amid the Winter’s Snow

Combeferre genuinely enjoys his academic work. He enjoys learning things. He enjoys discovering how facts and concepts he learns in his different classes fit together and fit into the larger world. He enjoys figuring out what he wants his papers to say, and how to present his ideas and research.

That said, Combeferre is extremely glad he’s two days away from the end of the semester. It’s been a brutal one, and he’s one exam and one handed-in paper away from being able to say that it’s over.

“Ferre, may I use your printer, pretty please?” Calls a voice from the next room.

Courfeyrac must have run out of ink again. Shocking, Combeferre thinks with a fond smile.

“Sure, come on in,” he replies.

Courfeyrac’s curls appear through Combeferre’s doorway, followed by the rest of Courfeyrac, holding his laptop.

“I just bought a new ink cartridge _last week_ , I swear. I don’t know what happened,” Courfeyrac is saying. “Also, this paper is fifteen pages long, so this is going to take a while.”

“No problem.”

“What are you working on?” Courfeyrac asks as he plugs Combeferre’s printer into his laptop.

“Philosophy paper. It’s my last one.”

“Ah, the return of Philoso-Ferre.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“I know. It’s why you love me.” Courfeyrac says, dropping a kiss on the top of Combeferre’s head.

“True.”

Combeferre isn’t sure if he wants Courfeyrac to know how true it actually is.

* * *

Once all the exams are over and the papers are handed in, the entire group of friends gathers at the Musain to celebrate the end of the semester.

Bahorel brought Cards Against Humanity.

It’s Feuilly’s turn. He picks up a black card.

“‘Why am I sticky?’” He reads, before placing the card face up in the center of the table.

“I’ve got two that are really good for this one, and I can’t choose.” Bossuet says with a frown.

“Just close your eyes and randomly pick one if you really can’t decide,” Joly says as he slides a white card, face down, to the center of the table.

Once everyone has submitted one—Bossuet added his to the pile with a look of distress on his face—Feuilly picks up all the white cards and shuffles them.

“‘Why am I sticky?’” He reads off the black card again. “Let’s see what we’ve got here. ‘Repression.’ Thanks for that one, Enjolras.”

“Who says it was me?” Comes his indignant reply.

Everyone raises their hands.

“Fine,” Enjolras replies, pouting. Grantaire kisses him on the cheek and he turns bright red.

“‘Multiple stab wounds,’” Feuilly reads off the next card. Several people turn to look at Bahorel, who is smirking. “‘Teaching a robot to love,’ ‘finger painting,’ ‘dying of dysentery,’ ‘my inner demons,’ ‘my collection of high-tech sex toys,’ ‘Grandma,’ ‘the Boy Scouts of America,’ ‘the miracle of childbirth,’ ‘prancing,’ and… oh God. Like, literally.”

Feuilly is down to the last white card, and Grantaire has started sketching his horrified facial expression on a napkin.

“‘The Blood of Christ,’” Feuilly haltingly reads off the final card, before leaning back in his chair. “Wow. You people have really outdone yourselves on this one. There were some really good ones in there, but it has to go to ‘the Blood of Christ.’”

Cosette pumps one fist in the air while reaching forward to take the black card with her other hand.

It’s now Jehan’s turn to pick the black card, as he’s sitting next to Feuilly.

Courfeyrac’s phone is buzzing. He pulls it from his pocket and excuses himself, telling the others to play this round without him.

He ducks out into the quiet, or at least _quieter_ hall to answer it.

“That was my sister,” Courfeyrac tells Combeferre when he returns, speaking softly so that only Combeferre can hear. “Apparently my dad wants to know which train I’ll be on tomorrow.”

“So which one will it be?” Combeferre asks.

“I still don’t have my train ticket yet,” Courfeyrac sighs. “And once I do, I’m going to have to figure out how to get approximately seven suitcases onto the damn train. You know I’m incapable of traveling light.”

“I can drive you,” Combeferre blurts before thinking about it.

“Oh Ferre, you don’t have to do that.”

“It’s no trouble, really. I’m driving anyway, and your house is right on my way.”

Courfeyrac lights up, and presses a gentle kiss to Combeferre’s cheek. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “You’re the best, and I owe you big time. And I’ll give you gas money.”

“I have a Prius, Courf. Gas money for the trip to your house would be about seven dollars.”

“Then I’ll buy you lunch.”

“You really don’t have to,” Combeferre protests. “I’ll be happy to have the company.”

“I have a Christmas playlist. Just so you’re prepared.”

“I would expect nothing less. I am prepared for my ears to be bleeding by the time we get to your house.”

Courfeyrac clicks his tongue. “Come on, Ferre, have some Christmas cheer.”

“I have Christmas cheer. What I don’t have is the desire to listen to seventy-eight pop stars try to out-diva each other.”

“Grinch.” Courfeyrac replies with a smile.

* * *

It turns out that Courfeyrac only packed _four_ suitcases, and two of them are small duffel bags. Between the trunk and the backseat, they fit into Combeferre’s car alongside his own luggage just fine.

They’re about an hour into the drive when Combeferre motions to a sign at the side of the highway. “Rest stop in three miles. How about some lunch?”

“Absolutely,” Courfeyrac replies as his phone buzzes. He unlocks the screen and pouts. “I thought as much.”

“What is it?” Combeferre asks.

“Text from one of my sisters. All of them are already home. Even the ones with, like, jobs and shit.”

“Right. Talk me through your family again?”

Combeferre has met some of Courfeyrac’s legendary siblings, but he still has a hard time keeping them all straight in his head. There are an awful lot of them.

“I’m the fourth of six, although I really should have been third.”

“You’re gonna have to explain what you mean by that.”

“I will in a minute. The eldest is Aderyn. She’s thirty-two, and she’s in charge of the science department at a public library, and you two will get along _so well_. Then there’s Branwen. She’s twenty-six, and, I shit you not, she’s a zookeeper. Then there are two sets of twins: Ceridwen and me, and Eirian and Eirwen. Ceridwen is twenty-one like me, obviously, and she’s planning on following our parents’ career path, studying Welsh mythology. Eirian and Eirwen are still in high school. They’re sixteen.”

“Hang on, how have I never realized that your parents named you in alphabetical order?”

Courfeyrac grins. “I was waiting for you to notice. Anyway, Ceridwen and I are twins. She’s seventeen minutes older, but really I should have been born first. When we were in utero, I was in position to emerge first, but she literally pushed her way past me.”

“Ouch.”

“I know! It’s so unfair!”

“No, I was thinking that must have been hell for your mom.”

“Well, the names she and my dad chose for us have more than made up for it. Imagine a childhood where you have to learn how to spell ‘Courfeyrac Gruffudd,’ and also explain to everyone you meet that ‘Gruffudd’ is pronounced like ‘Griffith.’ Welsh mythology is really cool except when it runs your life.”

“Yeah.”

“It was Aderyn that texted me—she says there’s a big storm coming. Whiteout conditions and more than a foot of snow.”

Combeferre gulps as he takes the exit for the rest stop. Hopefully the worst of the snow won’t hit until he’s dropped off Courfeyrac and gotten the rest of the way home. But based on how cloudy it is when they leave the building, and the flakes of puffy white snow beginning to flutter down as he parks the car, he’s not optimistic.

“Ferre!” Courfeyrac gasps as he sees the precipitation. “It’s _snowing!_ ”

Combeferre turns off the ignition. Courfeyrac has shed his seatbelt and jumped out of the car before Combeferre knows what’s happening. He’s standing between Combeferre’s Prius and the car in the next spot, his face turned up to the sky, mouth open, tongue sticking out in an attempt to catch the falling snowflakes.

Combeferre doesn’t get out of the car right away. He sits there, and gazes at Courfeyrac.

One of the things he loves most about Courfeyrac is his childlike way of looking at the world. There is an important difference between child _ish_ and child _like_. One is immature, simplistic, petty. Courfeyrac can occasionally stray into that territory, but that isn’t what Combeferre is thinking about. Childlike means approaching things with an innocent wonder, a sense of reverence.

Courfeyrac has the most open heart of anyone Combeferre knows. While Combeferre would panic about being late for a class, Courfeyrac would stop on the way to pick up a particularly bright, crunchy-looking leaf that he thought Jehan would like. The only time he’s ever been late to an Amis meeting was when he was picking up Feuilly’s birthday cake and there was a long, slow-moving line at the bakery.

This is not the first time that Combeferre has found himself thinking that, someday in the future, Courfeyrac will be an amazing father.

It’s a thought he deliberately tries to avoid, because every time it pops up again, it’s accompanied by an ache in Combeferre’s chest that has become all too familiar. When he first started noticing it, he tried so hard to deny what some part of him knew that it meant.

But he can’t deny it to himself anymore.

He loves Courfeyrac, and not just in a platonic way. In a romantic way.

Combeferre unbuckles his seatbelt and climbs out of the car.

“I love snow so much,” Courfeyrac says, grinning up at the sky. “It makes everything look so fresh and clean. And I love how when there’s snow, the sky never gets completely dark at night, because the light reflects off the snow, and it’s just _so beautiful_.”

“I totally get that.” Combeferre says. “But you know what else is so beautiful?”

“Me?” Courfeyrac turns to face Combeferre, his grin widening even further.

“Yes. Of course.” He hopes his voice doesn’t give away that he feels like his heart has dropped from his chest to somewhere in the approximate region of his toes. “I was also thinking lunch.”

Courfeyrac throws his arm around Combeferre’s shoulders and plants a smooch on his cheek. “Lunch is gorgeous.”

* * *

There’s a good four inches of snow on the ground by the time Combeferre pulls his car into Courfeyrac’s family’s driveway.

“Thanks again for the ride, Ferre,” Courfeyrac says as Combeferre turns off the engine.

“No problem. Like I said, it was nice to have the company.”

Between the two of them, they manage to haul all of Courfeyrac’s luggage to the front door of his family’s large, elegant Victorian brick house. As they’re climbing the porch steps, the door flies open, and Courfeyrac’s sisters and parents push past each other, all trying to be the first to greet the new arrivals.

Eirwen wins the race to Courfeyrac, followed by Branwen, then Eirian, Ceridwen, Aderyn, and Courfeyrac’s parents, Mr and Mrs Gruffudd.

They all greet Combeferre after greeting Courfeyrac.

“Welcome, Combeferre,” says Courfeyrac’s father as he shakes Combeferre’s hand. “Hope everything is going well.”

“Very well, yes, thank you Mr Gruffudd,” Combeferre replies.

“My father was Mr Gruffudd,” he says with a smile. “Please call me Owain.”

Combeferre nods, and intends to reply, but Courfeyrac’s mother is approaching with her arms open wide.

“Combeferre!” She says as she embraces Combeferre. “It’s lovely to see you!”

“You too, Mrs Gruffudd.”

“Please, Combeferre, how many times do I need to tell you to call me Gwen. Come on inside.”

The interior of the house is warm and bright. They pass the living room en route to the kitchen, dropping Courfeyrac’s bags at the bottom of the stairs.

“Combeferre, would you like to stay for dinner?” asks Gwen.

“Would you like to stay forever?” mutters Branwen. Courfeyrac swats her arm as he reaches over her to grab a cookie.

“Now,” Gwen says with an air of authority, “you kids go into the living room to put the final ornaments on the tree and hang the garlands and all that. Owain and I will finish making dinner. We should be ready to eat in about half an hour. So scoot.”

The six Gruffudd siblings stream out of the kitchen, back towards the living room. Combeferre goes to follow them, but Gwen lays a gentle hand on his arm.

“Combeferre, the weather is terrible, and getting worse, and I cannot in good conscience let you keep driving tonight. Your mothers would never forgive me if I let you leave here and something happened to you. How are your moms, by the way? I haven’t seen them since we moved you boys into your dorm in September.”

“They’re great!”

“That’s good to hear. They would never forgive me if I let you get back on that road. So call your moms and tell them you’re safe, and that you’re spending the night here. Owain can go upstairs to make up the bed in the guest room.”

“Oh, I don’t want to cause any bother. I can sleep on a couch.”

“Or,” Courfeyrac says, appearing out of nowhere and draping an arm around Combeferre, “you could share my room. No need for all that unnecessary bed-making.”

Courfeyrac presses a gentle kiss to Combeferre’s cheek, grabs another cookie, and disappears, leaving Combeferre alone with Gwen and her raised eyebrows.

* * *

After dinner, the whole family plus Combeferre return to the living room with tea and coffee and cocoa, and a large platter of cookies.

“Kids,” says Owain after taking a sip of coffee, “there are still a few ornaments that haven’t gone up yet. And some of those glittery snowflakes we hang in the windows, even though Mother Nature is doing a fine job with that herself.”

He points to two cardboard boxes about a foot away from the tree. Branwen and Eirwen pounce on the boxes, and begin lifting out ornaments and handing them out for people to add to the tree. Combeferre finds himself holding a plump little hedgehog made out of felt. He hangs it on the side of the tree, alongside a plump little felt penguin that Courfeyrac has just hung up.

“Courfeyrac?” Asks Aderyn.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think you and Combeferre could wrap this garland around the stair banister please?”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac look at each other and shrug.

“Sure, we can do that,” Courfeyrac replies, reaching out to take the green, waxy-leafed garland from his eldest sister. “I’ll take it up the stairs, if you can get it started at the bottom,” he says to Combeferre as they cross the hallway from the living room to the staircase.

“Sure,” Combeferre replies.

Courfeyrac untangles the garland, and hands one end to Combeferre, who begins to wrap it around the banister. Courfeyrac goes up the first few steps, continuing to wrap the garland.

“Does this look even?” Asks Courfeyrac from halfway up the stairs.

“Yeah, it looks great.” Combeferre replies. He takes a few steps backward, until he feels himself bump into the doorless doorway that serves as the entrance to the living room.

“Awesome,” says Courfeyrac, wrapping the end of the garland around the top of the banister. He bounces down the stairs.

“Wait, stay right there!” Branwen exclaims when Courfeyrac re-enters the living room.

“Why?” He asks.

“Look up,” replies Branwen, a wide grin very similar to her brother’s breaking out across her face.

Combeferre glances up and _oh no_. He recognizes the cluster of greenery over their heads—small leaves and distinctive white berries, tied with a festive ribbon that belies the toxicity of the plant, both literal and, he suspects, metaphorical.

Mistletoe.

Hanging over him and Courfeyrac.

“Go on then,” Gwen says with an innocent smile.

“Mom—” Courfeyrac protests.

“It’s just a friendly kiss, Courfeyrac,” Owain chimes in, not even looking up from wrestling a string of lights. “It doesn’t have to be a huge deal.”

“Do you have any idea how fucked-up this so-called tradition is?” Courfeyrac blurts.

“Hey, hey, Courfeyrac, it’s okay,” Gwen says soothingly, taking a step towards her son.

“I’ll be right back,” Courfeyrac replies, his eyes cast towards the floor as he bolts for the stairs.

In the moment of painfully awkward silence that follows Courfeyrac’s departure, no one looks at Combeferre, until Aderyn clears her throat.

“Combeferre, could you help me move these empty boxes back to the basement?” She asks.

There are only two empty boxes, and she could have easily carried both herself.

“Of course,” Combeferre responds, stepping towards her to take a box.

He has never been so glad to get away from a bunch of leaves.

* * *

After returning the box to the basement, Combeferre returns to the living room.

“I’m going to check on Courfeyrac,” he tells the family.

“I think that’s a good idea,” Gwen replies. “I’m so sorry, Combeferre. Please tell him that.”

“I will.”

He climbs the stairs slowly, his steps deliberately heavy to alert Courfeyrac to his presence.

In the December evening darkness, the upstairs hallway is lit only by the strings of lights decorating the window at the top of the stairs.

Courfeyrac is leaning against the frame of the window, gazing out, his arms wrapped around himself. He doesn’t seem to have noticed Combeferre’s presence.

“Hey,” Combeferre says softly as he approaches.

“Hi,” comes Courfeyrac’s quiet reply.

“Are you okay?” He asks Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac nods, not meeting Combeferre’s eyes. “I’m sorry they put you on the spot like that,” he replies. “They always take consent really seriously except for this massive mistletoe blindspot. No one should be pressured into kissing someone they don’t want to kiss.”

Combeferre shakes his head. He doesn’t dare look at Courfeyrac.

“It’s not that,” Combeferre says softly. “It’s not that I didn’t want to kiss you. It’s that I didn’t want our first kiss to be like that.”

“You didn’t want our first kiss to be like that?” It’s like Courfeyrac has to repeat the words to believe them. “So you’ve thought about it? Our first kiss?”

Combeferre scoffs. “Of course I have.”

Courfeyrac grins. “So have I.”

“Good,” Combeferre says with an emphatic nod.

“I never imagined it happening anything like this, though,” Courfeyrac says, dropping his arms to his sides and turning ever so slightly towards Combeferre.

Combeferre bites back a smile. “So what did you imagine?”

“The when and where don’t matter so much, as long as it’s you.”

“So you’re telling me I could have barged into your room at 4 a.m. dressed as a penguin, and you would have kissed me?”

“How did you know about my penguin kink?”

“You know there’s straight-up penguin porn in _March of the Penguins_ , right?”

Courfeyrac leans forward and, with a quiet huff of laughter, buries his face in Combeferre’s neck. “We are getting _so off topic_.”

It feels completely natural for Combeferre to wrap his arms around Courfeyrac. “Where were we?”

“You were right about to kiss me and suddenly we were talking about penguin porn. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to avoid kissing me.”

Combeferre pulls back ever so slightly and gazes down at Courfeyrac, gently stroking his cheek.

“Courf, babe, you know me better than to think I’d say anything I don’t mean.”

And with that, he leans in and captures Courfeyrac’s lips with his own.

Combeferre has, indeed, thought about this kiss, and the reality of it more than lives up to his imagination.

He buries his hands in Courfeyrac’s soft curls. He needs something to ground him, because he’s sure that without that contact, he would feel as if he was floating, completely impervious to gravity.

The kiss is soft, and gentle, and so, so sweet, but there’s an urgency behind it. Those months, maybe years, of yearning, those longing gazes when the other was looking somewhere else… it all led here.

They have to come up for air eventually, but Combeferre can’t bear to lose contact with Courfeyrac, so he rests his forehead against Courf’s, and gently runs a thumb along his jawline.

“Thank you for running after me to make sure I was okay. I’m very glad you did that,” Courfeyrac says softly, running a hand through Combeferre’s hair.

Combeferre knows that perfection is a myth, but this moment, standing in the soft glow of the Christmas lights and the sweet release of the acknowledgment of his and Courfeyrac’s mutual feelings feels pretty darn perfect.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” Courfeyrac whispers.

“So did I, but I had no idea you felt that way.”

Courfeyrac tilts his head to one side and frowns. “Really? I kiss you all the time!”

“You kiss _everyone_ , though. You kiss Marius, and Jehan, and Feuilly, and Bossuet and Joly, and Eponine, and Cosette, and—”

“I don’t kiss Enjolras.”

“That’s because he’s Enjolras. No one but Grantaire kisses Enjolras.”

“Also, I think your mom already thinks we’re together.”

“Why would she think that?”

“Well, telling her I would sleep in your room, and then kissing me… you didn’t see the look she gave me after you left the room. I didn’t know a person’s eyebrows could go up that high.”

“That might explain why my parents made such a big deal about the mistletoe. If we were already together, yeah, it wouldn’t have been a big deal. Which, by the way, _are_ we together now?”

“I really hope so,” replies Combeferre, reaching for Courfeyrac’s hand and weaving their fingers together. “Because it just so happens that I love you.”

“Well, yeah, who wouldn’t?” Courfeyrac grins.

Combeferre smiles, and squeezes Courfeyrac’s hand.

“No, I mean I’m _in_ love with you.”

“I know.” Courfeyrac responds, his face serious. “I’m in love with you too.”

“I’m about to kiss you again.”

“Go for it,” Courfeyrac replies, wrapping his arms around Combeferre’s waist. “You can go ahead and kiss me whenever you damn well please.”

“Likewise,” Combeferre says, gazing into Courfeyrac’s stunningly gorgeous chocolate-y brown eyes. Courfeyrac grins at him, causing the skin at the edges of his eyes to crinkle. Combeferre is pretty sure he’s never seen anything so beautiful. He leans down and presses his lips to Courfeyrac’s. He can feel Courfeyrac smiling against his lips, and it’s pretty much the best thing he’s ever experienced.

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas to all that celebrate, and Happy Tuesday to those that don’t!
> 
> The title of this fic is also the name of one of my favorite [Christmas carols](https://youtu.be/fPgo-UfyJgc).


End file.
